Following Iorveth
by kittymistress
Summary: Perhaps Geralt didn't just follow Iorveth to Vergen to save Triss. And perhaps, while in Vergen, the pair did more than save Saskia from poison and fight off King Henselt's troops. This is The Witcher 2 rewritten as a Geralt/Iorveth romance. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

This is the first chapter of a longer work to be uploaded as they're written. Chapters will get smuttier, so be warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of The Witcher. All of the quotes in the first chapter are taken directly from the game.

The first time Geralt met Iorveth, he thought he was a pompous asshole. Granted, an asshole who could play the flute like a gentle songbird, but an asshole nonetheless.

"King or beggar, what's the difference," Iorveth declared when Roche had accused him of aiding Foltest's killer. "One dh'oine less."

And if Geralt sliced off the elf's pretty head now, there would be one heartless killer less.

Not that Roche was much better, goading the scoia'tael leader with fighting words when Iorveth charged him with the genocide of nonhumans—women and children included. In Geralt's mind, they were both terrorists. But he had allied himself to one of these terrorists in order to find Foltest's killer and clear his name. Defending the kingslayer's ally wouldn't do much for his reputation.

So he distracted Iorveth with political talk to give Triss a chance to prepare a spell that would get them all out of there—"political talk" being a polite way to describe the jibes he spewed to embarrass Iorveth in front of his archers.

"Seems like you spout the same old elvin drivel," he began.

Iorveth turned his attention to Geralt for the first time then, no doubt wondering what a professional monster hunter and mutant was doing in the company of the Blue Stripes, who had no fondness for nonhumans. "What do you mean, witcher?"

"I've seen your kind before," Geralt went on. "Proud Aen Seidhe, sneaking around forest. Helpless, yet masking that with acts of increasing cruelty."

That got to the elf. His mouth turned down in a sneer, his voice growing harsh with a flaring temper. "I helped kill Roche's king—you call that helpless? Or would you call me a terrorist?" He took a breath to calm himself. "No one will grant us our freedom, witcher. We must win it for ourselves."

Geralt felt a pang of empathy for the elf. That was what Iorveth wanted, though—to include him in a community, in the "we" that formed the scoia'tael and their supporters. Perhaps what Iorveth said was true. But Geralt wasn't one to sell his soul to an ideal. He did what was best for himself. He was no freedom fighter.

Or so he told himself as he retorted, "You're just another old elf in a young elf's skin, using clever words to mask an obvious truth."

"Obvious, you say?" Iorveth spewed. Geralt didn't want to make a mockery of the scoia'tael's cause—it was a worthy one, though carried out through unworthy means. But he suspected that he was right, and pointing out the truth would give Triss more time to prepare.

"This is not about race or freedom, or even vengeance," he shouted to the elf and his cohorts. "You're here because someone powerful told you to be. Someone who's using you. They might wear a crown, carry a magic wand, or even lead a guild. But be sure of this: it's not about your freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard ploughed you once. Now someone new does." He looked at the rage in Iorveth's eye and almost hated himself for asking, "Am I wrong?"

Geralt could tell that Iorveth was uncertain under that red scarf he used to hide his disfigurement, but he raised his battle-roughened voice over his own doubt, and Geralt could see—or, rather, hear—why young elves were so eager to join Iorveth's war. "Those times are done. No one will ever use the scoia'tael again."

Geralt couldn't help but challenge him. "Who are you addressing?" he asked. "Me? Yourself? Or the archers in those shrubs?"

Iorveth didn't have to respond to that last crack. When Geralt acknowledged Iorveth's archers, the archers responded with a shower of arrows that would have left a mark if not for the barrier Triss cast just before collapsing into Roche's arms. And so the conversation concluded.

Perhaps Geralt should have been jealous that Roche was marching to Flotsam with his hands on Geralt's woman's "lovely ass." But he couldn't find it in himself to care. He kept turning back to glimpse the sculpted face of the scoia'tael leader, at the fire in the elf's left eye and at the intriguing scar that disappeared under fabric red as blood. He found himself wanting to lift the scarf from Iorveth's face and let the sun gaze on the rest of the scar for the first time in who knew how long, relieving the elf of at least part of his burden.

Geralt didn't know why he suddenly felt so much tenderness toward a terrorist, but he wanted to get rid of it. He swung his steel blade at Iorveth's men with added vigor. Iorveth was the enemy, he reminded himself—for now.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Geralt met Iorveth, he still thought he was an asshole. He was, however, looking forward to their meeting, as he had spent the last several days growing more and more outraged at the abuse of nonhumans in and around Flotsam. An elfin woman's body had been hanging from the gallows since the day he'd arrived. He would have cut the corpse down out of respect, but he knew he had to pick his battles with Loredo carefully. If he got himself pasted up on a wanted sign next to Iorveth on every vacant wall in Flotsam, his business as a witcher and his efforts to find the kingslayer would be slowed by the horde of Loredo-loving soldiers and amateur gold-seekers who would chase after him in a suicidal effort to claim the reward.

At the moment, Loredo thought he had an agreement with Geralt: he'd summoned the witcher to his quarters to request Iorveth's severed head, and Geralt had lied his way out of the conversation so he could collect his weapons and be on his elf-friendly way. Keeping Loredo under a false impression served Geralt's interests for now. But the thought of detaching Iorveth's head from his body—or otherwise marring the elf's beautiful features—made his stomach turn in perplexing knots.

He knew he would avoid using his swords against Iorveth if at all possible—he just didn't know why. He usually reserved that kind of chivalry for women, though female warriors did not at all appreciate his underestimation of their abilities. And surely Iorveth of all people could defend himself. With centuries of experience as a guerrilla fighter, he would be a match for any witcher. But that was not the reason Geralt was reluctant to stand against him.

Zoltan was his link to Iorveth—though not a very strong link, as Zoltan's presence didn't stop the scoia'tael from aiming enough arrows at the witcher to kill a golem as soon as he stepped into their forest.

"I thought you said you had an invitation to this party," he said to Zoltan.

"I guess I wasn't supposed to bring guests," Zoltan replied, rolling his hardy shoulders to hide his unease.

The elves were all beautiful, each of them carrying the vivid cheekbones and long, dark lashes that were their birthright. But their beauty was easily forgotten. Their flawless features melded together like shallow waves on a windless sea, too perfect to hook Geralt's interest. He wanted a storm to fill the gaps in his memory—some excitement to replace the stories he had lost. Iorveth had thunder rumbling under his skin and lightning traced across his scarred face. Geralt would not forget the scoia'tael commander's beauty.

The elves delivered Geralt and Zoltan to a large, sunlit clearing and quickly scattered when a few of the forest's resident insectoids sprang from the trees. A trap, Geralt thought. He wasn't sure why they hadn't just put an arrow in his head. No doubt Iorveth was watching him from the top of some tree. That was what squirrels did. They climbed trees.

He would play the elf's game. Leaving Zoltan a few paces back, he drew his silver sword and went to work jabbing and dodging at the creatures' bone-like skins. He took his time breaking through to their internal organs and parried frequently to make sure he was never hit. Who knew when he would get a chance to treat any wounds he acquired on this outing. He may have rolled a little more than necessary, and maybe twirling his sword over his head before striking the last creature dead was a tad much. He did it all for Iorveth, and for the exhilaration he felt when he thought of Iorveth's striking green eye examining his form.

He sheathed his sword and adjusted himself. He didn't usually get hard when fighting monsters.

A slow clap echoed against his back, vibrating in his rib cage. He could feel the sarcasm in the sound and knew it came from Iorveth's hands—slender, long-fingered elfin hands, calloused and scarred from battle. He turned and walked back across the clearing toward Zoltan and the scoia'tael.

"A lovely show, Gwynbleidd," Iorveth called. "But tell me: was it worth it? An uneven fight and certain death await you anyway."

Geralt glanced at Iorveth's band of warriors before turning his eyes back on their leader. "I could ask you the same thing."

Iorveth lowered his voice. "What do you want, vatt'ghern? Quickly, before I kill you both."

He didn't believe that Iorveth planned to kill him. If that were his intention, Geralt would have been dead before he'd gotten out of sight of Flotsam's wall. That said, he didn't appreciate that the archers still had their arrows trained on his throat.

"Letho betrayed you," Geralt said. "He wanted to make a deal with your comrade, Ciaran."

"Ciaran is dead. Two weeks ago his warriors were ambushed and killed. You should invent better lies, Gwynbleidd."

Iorveth's face was hard, unrelenting. Geralt wondered if the commander had ever allowed himself to grieve for a fallen friend—or if he even acknowledged that he had friends. Surely Iorveth would have been troubled by the scene inside the barge at Flotsam's port, where Geralt had witnessed Ciaran's last lucid moments. It would have been a mercy to kill the suffering man. But again—he had to pick his battles with Loredo and his men.

"He's on the barge. Wounded, but alive." Barely. "He turned Letho down, and his unit paid the ultimate price."

Iorveth turned his face down so Geralt couldn't watch his thoughts flash across his eye. It seemed that the scoia'tael commander wasn't good at hiding his feelings, when he felt anything at all. At last the elf looked up with his signature sneer. "If you speak the truth, Letho will die. But words alone are not enough."

The archers in the trees lowered their bows with caution. Geralt took this as a sign that he had passed his second test. But he couldn't leave the conversation at that. He'd been burning to talk to Iorveth for days now, and here was his chance.

"What's your goal, Iorveth?" he asked.

The scoia'tael commander shook his head. "What's it to you, Geralt?" he sighed. "You'd tell me to stuff it up my arse."

Geralt cracked a smile. "Not everything deserves that fate. My life now depends on your whim, so I'm curious." _And I like listening to your voice_ , he added without words.

"Then listen well," Iorveth snarled. "The two dead kings were whoresons who'd damn their own children to stay in power. But in the east there's someone truly deserving of a crown."

His sneer dissolved then, the tension around his mouth and eyes relaxing to show Geralt a glimpse of the innocent idealism that had surely started this bloody endeavour. Geralt felt a pang of envy. Whoever this ruler in the east was, he or she had clearly won Iorveth's heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Bear with me—the story unfolds slowly because I like my smut with a heaping side of plot and genuine romance. Many of the quotes here are taken from The Witcher 2, which I don't own.

* * *

"You still trust this assassin?"

Geralt was stunned. Iorveth had had little to say about his message from Ciaran and didn't seem to be in any hurry to confront Letho about his treachery. Geralt had hoped to win the elf's favor by bringing him valuable information. He's chest fell a little when he discovered that that wasn't going to happen.

"You may be lying," Iorveth said with a shrug.

"If I'm lying, so did Ciaran."

"We'll investigate it for his sake." Iorveth stepped back and stretched his arms behind his head, and the whole forest listened to the _crack crack crack_ of knots along his spine. When he was finished, he continued, "We shall see how Letho reacts to your sensational news."

Geralt pulled his eyes away from Iorveth's broad shoulders, which had jutted forward during the elf's all-too-sensual stretch. "Where is he?"

"The ruins of Cáelmewedd," Iorveth said. "For some reason he likes the place. My unit will cover us." He paused, then added, "We need a ruse. Tell Letho you've captured me and want to hand me over to him."

Geralt's pants shrank. That's how he chose to explain why the fabric around his groin tightened at the thought of capturing Iorveth—taking the war-roughened scoia'tael commander deep into the forest to have his way with him—

"And you?" Geralt asked before his fantasies could get the better of him.

"I'll be unarmed, hands bound. If you're not lying, his reaction will confirm it." His voice was low and husky, teasing the witcher with the prospect of binding his hands behind his back, and perhaps, if they got really frisky, his ankles. Geralt began to think that this ruse was meant more for him than for Letho. "I don't trust you, of course," the elf went on. "My warriors will cover us. If you try anything stupid…"

"I get it," Geralt said.

Iorveth only laughed—a light, airy chuckle that sent shivers down Geralt's thighs. "I don't think you do. Do anything stupid and they'll tie you down on an anthill, face coated with honey. You'll scream so loud even the storm riders will hear you.

It was a clever threat, certainly original, but it made Geralt smile. Iorveth loved drama, loved the adrenaline rush of being in complete control. The witcher couldn't wait to strip that superiority complex away from him. He was sure that, given a night alone with the scoia'tael commander, he could have Iorveth begging to be dominated.

"Are you always so grandiose?" Geralt replied at last. "We could just tell Letho to own up."

"Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenwerde," Iorveth murmured.

Geralt's amnesia-ridden mind scrambled to translate the elder speech into his own tongue. "Conquer with courage, rather than strength?"

Iorveth brought his hands together and gave Geralt another clap of approval—this one less sarcastic than the last.

"Exactly," he said. "Let's go."

Geralt tried not to beam. He had passed his latest test.

Iorveth's archers disappeared into the trees, though Geralt knew they were watching. Listening. He wondered if the scoia'tael commander was ever left alone.

"What do you have to bind your wrists with?" Geralt asked.

Iorveth looked around. "We can find a pliable branch somewhere, surely."

Geralt snorted. "You think Letho is dense enough to fall for that? He's a witcher, not a troll." He fished around in his pouch for a pair of manacles he'd filched off a soldier's corpse. He'd originally labeled them as junk, but on second thought, he'd decided they might come in handy in the bedroom.

Iorveth eyed the manacles with the beginnings of a smile. "You carry those around with you all the time, do you?"

"Never know when I'll need to subdue someone."

"Strictly in your business as a witcher, of course," Iorveth said, fully smirking now. He turned around and held his wrists out behind him. Geralt couldn't help but admire the elf's narrow hips and shapely ass. "You do have the key, don't you?"

"I'll put it in the lock so you can free yourself when it's time." _And I'll take my damn time so I can keep that fine ass in sight just a little while longer._

He closed the cuffs around Iorveth's wrists, letting his fingers linger over the elf's surprisingly soft skin. He wanted to sink his teeth into it and leave his marks all over Iorveth's beautiful body.

Instead, he clasped one of his hands around Iorveth's wrists—so narrow compared to his own!—and steered his prisoner forward through the forest, thinking all the while about the many things he'd rather be doing with the handcuffed scoia'tael commander.


	4. Chapter 4

With his hands bound behind him, Iorveth walked slowly through the forest, his balance thrown off by Geralt's steady grip on his arms. Occasionally Geralt rammed into him from behind when the elf stopped to bypass a log or thorn bush. Even through their armor, Iorveth's body was warm against his chest, and Geralt began to walk too quickly on purpose so the elf would stumble into him. They were close enough that Geralt could pick up Iorveth's scent, sweet honeysuckle and earthy bryonia. He stopped himself from licking the slight sheen of sweat from Iorveth's neck, just underneath his hairline. He wanted to know Iorveth's taste.

When they climbed the steps toward the rose garden, Iorveth tripped over the third step and would have smashed his pretty face into the ground had Geralt not looped an arm around his waist and pulled him close. Iorveth looked away to hide the flush that spread over his cheeks. Not very like a heartless terrorist, Geralt thought. He didn't know if the elf was blushing because he had stumbled or because he was now pressed into Geralt's side with the witcher's hand planted firmly on his hip. Probably both, especially with the knowledge that his archers had seen it all.

"You can release me, vatt'ghern," Iorveth said out the side of his mouth.

Geralt put his inhuman strength toward lifting the elf up onto the next step. He cemented his arm in place with a hand around Iorveth's belt. "You're not so good at walking. I think I'll keep you here until we're to the top."

"I walk perfectly well when I don't have a witcher's weight pulling me down."

Geralt tugged at Iorveth's manacles, forcing the elf to trip into his chest. "This was your idea."

"Don't remind me."

When they reached the top of the steps, Geralt reluctantly let the scoia'tael commander slip away from his side, though he kept a firm grip on Iorveth's wrists. Letho was standing near the rose garden, his muscles bulging grotesquely under taut skin. As he walked Iorveth through the stone archway, Geralt took in the other witcher's jutting brow and the vein that pulsed just under his scalp. He raised a hand to his long, white hair to make sure he hadn't gone bald in the forest. He hoped people found him more attractive than this joker.

"Geralt of Rivia," Letho announced. "What's the meaning of this?"

"I'm here to negotiate," Geralt said. He shoved Iorveth forward and pushed him to his knees. Iorveth fell without a struggle, making a show of picking himself up without his hands. He almost seemed to enjoy being manhandled.

"Ah! Iorveth, the woodland fox, caught at last." Letho nodded in Geralt's direction. "I underestimated you."

Letho wanted to talk about the past. Apparently the two witchers had known each other. This would have been of immense interest to Geralt about a week earlier, but now he was having trouble taking his mind off the scowling elf standing to his left. Every idle word from Letho deepened the curl of Iorveth's lip. His anger charged the air with electric heat. Iorveth did not like to be ignored.

"Joke's over," he snarled, barreling through Letho's slow speech. "Unbind me."

Letho barely glanced at him. Geralt gave Iorveth's manacles a tug and said, "Ciaran told me you want to eliminate Iorveth."

Letho shrugged. "Even if I do, why would you help me?"

"Bloede dh'oine," Iorveth seethed. Geralt gave the manacles another tug, forcing Iorveth back to his knees. The elf looked lovely in that position. But Geralt didn't have time to admire him.

"Tell me who you're working for and the elf is yours."

Geralt saw Iorveth's mind working behind his visible eye, wondering if this was still part of the ruse. But Geralt hadn't forgotten the threat about the anthill.

"We work for ourselves," Letho said.

"We?"

"The kingslayers."

There was more talk of the past then, and it turned Iorveth's fair skin almost purple. He was cute when he was annoyed. Geralt noted that he should annoy the elf as frequently as possible.

And to secure his future of making Iorveth turn purple, Geralt wasn't about to hand him over to the kingslayer. Iorveth belonged to him now.

"I've changed my mind," Geralt said. "The elf comes back with me."

Letho shook his head at this rejection. "We fought side by side. Now we'll cross blades. This wouldn't be necessary if I'd killed Iorveth first."

Iorveth looked more pissed than Geralt had ever seen an elf. He supposed a person had to have quite a temper to gain the reputation for terrorism that Iorveth had. "Serrit and Auckes will drown in their own blood," he hissed.

"Oh, I don't think so," Letho drawled. "My men will finish their task long before the scoia'tael in the Pontar Valley realize you're dead."

"Who are Serrit and Auckes?" Geralt interrupted.

He never heard the answer, because that's when Iorveth's temper burst.

"Enough of this farce!" he shouted. "Vedrai! Enn'le!"

Elves burst from the trees, arrows ready to launch—though not quickly enough. From the other direction, arrows were already whizzing straight into the archers' heads, almost as though they had shot themselves in surrender. While Iorveth's forces fell, Vernon Roche and his men vaulted onto the hill with their swords drawn. The human special forces met the remaining scoia'tael on the rose garden, crushing the rarest of rose petals beneath their boots. The roses bled a sorrowful fragrance, and Geralt stared at Roche in dismay. The Blue Stripes commander had ruined it all. Geralt had been hoping to get out of here without a fight.

Iorveth dropped Geralt's handcuffs to the ground and held out his hand. "Give me my sword."

Geralt hoped he wouldn't regret this. He handed over the steel blade and watched the elf charge at his greatest enemy, Vernon Roche.

"Die!" Iorveth cried as metal crashed against metal. As angry as Geralt was with Roche, he hoped they both survived the fight.


	5. Chapter 5

Letho left Geralt on the stone ground of the room behind the elfin baths. The fight hadn't ended well for Geralt, but the other witcher had spared him. Letho seemed to have a fondness for him that Geralt neither understood nor remembered. He pulled himself to his knees and sheathed his sword, considering all of the friendships he had forgotten. Dandelion, for instance, was supposed to be one of his dear friends.

Iorveth appeared in the stone doorway before Geralt could run off in search of Triss. The elf had a tear running through one of his sleeves but no bloodstains that Geralt could see.

"I see you won your fight," Geralt said.

"And you," Iorveth replied.

"Not exactly. Letho's gone after Triss. He's going to force her to teleport him to Aedirn."

Iorveth scowled. "We need to get to him before that happens."

They rushed out of the cavern side by side. Their boots slipped and squeaked over the golden tiles surrounding the ancient bath in the next room. Geralt paused to gaze at the deep cerulean pool, wishing he had time to throw Iorveth into it. Iorveth glanced at his face and smiled.

"Maybe another time," he said.

Geralt didn't know what the elf was referring to: a simple bath, or the fulfillment of a sexual fantasy.

Iorveth took off at a sprint as soon as they were out of the garden. The elf's muscles rippled like wind and shook the leaves on his neck tattoo. His quick-footed grace contrasted with Geralt's powerful canter, and yet they kept pace with each other easily, with Iorveth only occasionally pushing ahead. He knew this forest better than Geralt did, after all.

At the wall that barred the forest from Flotsam, Iorveth stopped and frowned.

"If I go in there, I'll be strung up on a meat hook and flogged to death," he said in his usual bored drawl.

"Then stay. I'll go."

Iorveth tilted his chin up and looked down his nose at the witcher. "How chivalrous of you," he chuckled.

Geralt left Iorveth outside the wall and charged into the town center. The square was trashed, with chairs and venders' stands overturned and burning next to the scattered bodies of nonhumans. Beside the gallows, five burly men had surrounded a delicate elfin woman and torn her shirt from her body with grubby, murderous hands. Geralt didn't have time for this—he had to find Triss. As he ran toward the inn, he whipped his steel sword out and plunged it through two of the men's torsos. The other three took the hint and headed for their homes. Geralt picked the woman up off the ground and handed her a sheet of cloth from his bag to cover herself.

"Iorveth and the scoia'tael are in the forest just over there. They'll keep you safe until this blows over."

She kissed him on the cheek in thanks and slipped off into the forest. Geralt went on to the inn, cringing at the screams that echoed from beyond the town square. Dandelion met him in the doorway.

"What the hell is going on?" Geralt asked.

"A massacre," Dandelion said grimly. "The townspeople have decided to avenge the deaths of the soldiers who fought the scoia'tael today by murdering nonhumans in Flotsam. It started with a single elfin woman, but it's spread across town by now. Some of the men are trying to get into the barge to set it aflame."

"But Roche's soldiers started the battle," Geralt argued.

"It doesn't matter to the people of Flotsam. To them, the scoia'tael are terrorists, and every nonhuman is a potential spy."

Geralt shook his head in disgust. "We'll deal with this later. I need to find Triss. Do you know where she is?"

"Last I saw her, she was going to search Síle's room with Cedric. She thought Síle was up to something unsavory."

"Fuck," Geralt said. He dashed up to the second floor of the inn and burst into Síle's room.

Triss was nowhere in sight, and Cedric's blood was soaking through the floor.

Geralt's heart was heavy in his chest when he returned to Iorveth. The scoia'tael leader had moved to the old cemetery with a few of his archers to hide out and sketch plans. A fitting location, Geralt thought grimly. He had just closed Cedric's eyes after watching the old elf draw his last breath, surrounded by the forest that was his most constant love. The deer and rabbits had traveled to Cedric's final resting place to bid farewell to their closest friend. If Geralt were the crying type, he would have wept. Instead, he punched a tree and cursed himself for failing to kill Letho before the other witcher could kill Cedric.

Geralt stepped up beside Iorveth's archers and tried to compose himself, but his anger and his grief came out in balled fists.

"Where's Letho?" Iorveth asked. The elf was all business, all the time. Geralt would have liked to loosen him up.

"Gone," he said through gritted teeth. "He took Triss." _And killed a friend_ , he thought, but he didn't mention Cedric's death to Iorveth. The two elves had opposite ideologies. To Iorveth, Cedric was a spineless, dh'oine-loving traitor. To Cedric, Iorveth was a young and impulsive murderer. Geralt sympathized with them both.

Iorveth looked on Geralt in silence, his visible eyebrow scrunching down toward his nose. His single eye held the emotion of two. Geralt found himself both hypnotized and blinded by the endless depth of the elf's pupil—until Iorveth turned away from him to nod to his archers.

"Scout out the path between here and Flotsam. I'll remain here to speak with the witcher. If you find any dh'oine, report to me and we shall gather a group."

After his men and women had slipped away into the forest, Iorveth spun back to face Geralt.

"What else?" Iorveth asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're brooding and withdrawn. You haven't made a single comment about my 'grandiose' nature since you arrived. And you don't appear to be in any rush to go after Letho and your sorceress." He stepped so close to Geralt that their noses nearly touched, and Geralt could feel the warmth of Iorveth's breath on his neck. "You think yourself unreadable, Gwynbleidd. But you forget that I am old, that I am a hunter of dh'oine. I can smell your pheromones. What else happened after you left me?"

His voice had taken on a soft, melted quality in which Geralt wanted to sink lips-first. The witcher brought a hand up as though to touch the elf's cheek—then, thinking better of it, let his palm fall to rest on Iorveth's shoulder.

"Cedric has been slain," he confessed at last.

Iorveth's eye widened. "By whom?"

"Letho. Cedric attempted to prevent him from abducting Triss." He swallowed hard to dry his throat and eyes. "I found Cedric in the forest, bleeding out. He's gone now."

Iorveth stepped away from Geralt's hand. Geralt saw the pain flash in his eye before he could turn his back and cast his face to the ground. Gingerly, he moved forward so that he stood at Iorveth's back, his lips near enough to kiss the elf's earlobe. He did not touch Iorveth—only blanketed him with his presence so that he could be comforted if that was what he desired.

"I thought you weren't close," Geralt said softly.

"A lot you know, vatt'ghern," Iorveth snapped. Then he sighed and said, "Cedric and I were close, once. A long time before you were born, I would guess. I welcomed the kingslayer into my forest, and he slew my…"

Iorveth trailed off, perhaps not knowing what Cedric was to him, or perhaps not wanting to say it aloud.

Instead, he murmured, "He never forgave me for the deeds of the scoia'tael. For my part, I never told him that I forgave him for living among the dh'oine." He lowered himself onto a stone in the earth, his face still turned toward the ground into which Cedric's body would eventually decay. "I could never have hated him for that. I respected him too much."

He chuckled darkly at himself, and the sound flowed seamlessly into a choked sob.

"I think he knew," Geralt said. "He spoke unkindly of your cause, but never of you."

Iorveth shook his head. He would never believe the best of himself, Geralt thought sadly. When the elf looked up, his eye glistened with saline. It was a beautiful sorrow, the kind Geralt had seen in the faces of the wildlife who had come to see Cedric off to the next world.

"Take me to him now, and then we will never speak of this again."

Geralt nodded. Without speaking, he led Iorveth to the majestic oak where Cedric had laid his own body to rest. He had closed Cedric's eyes, and now—but for the blood drenching his shirt—he looked as though he were merely sleeping. His face held none of the fear or ire that marred the soldiers' corpses Geralt saw so frequently.

"In the end, he was at peace," he said.

He saw Iorveth's shoulders begin to shake.

Geralt pressed his hand to Iorveth's back for a brief moment of consolation. Then he vanished into the forest, allowing the scoia'tael commander to grieve in private. He wondered just how close the two elves had been—but Iorveth would never tell him the entire story, and Geralt would not ask that of him now that Cedric was gone. Whatever the men had shared, it would remain forever between them and the forest.


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt was standing in the cemetery with three scoia'tael archers when Iorveth returned. The elf showed no sign that he was coming from the resting place of his former friend, or lover. His face was all hard lines and tight muscles, and his shoulders were set like a stone wall.

"Is the path clear?" he asked. His voice was no longer liquid. It was as hard as the ground beneath Geralt's feet, and perhaps harder, because someone had managed to break through the ground with a shovel.

One of the archers nodded. "The rioting has sent most of those in Flotsam into hiding. Those who remain outside belong to Loredo. Soldiers, all of them. They appear to be stationed throughout the town, probably under the guise of keeping peace."

Iorveth snorted. "Bloede dh'oine. I suppose they're all guarding the barge. Ah, well. We'll have to go through them."

Geralt looked between scoia'tael and asked, "Are you planning to break the prisoners out of the barge?"

"No," Iorveth said. "We're planning to break ourselves into it. We can get to Aedirn more quickly on water, and we'll bring everyone on the barge to safer territory."

"There are many soldiers on the docks, Iorveth," a scoia'tael woman added. "A fight may not end in our favor."

"Then we won't fight them," Iorveth replied, strolling around the nearby graves with one hand resting on the hilt of the sword attached to his hip. "There's more than one way to cross a river."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. He supposed that was an elfish saying.

"We could put on another ruse," the witcher suggested. "Seemed to work pretty well last time."

Iorveth nodded slowly, considering. "That will get the two of us on the barge. When we've secured it, we can circle around and pick up the rest of the scoia'tael before heading for Aedirn."

The story for this ruse was similar to that of the last: Geralt would lead Iorveth to the barge as his prisoner, claiming that Loredo had instructed him to put Iorveth with the rest of the captives. Unfortunately, no one had thought to pick up the manacles from where Iorveth had dropped them during the battle at the rose garden.

"We could go back for them," Geralt offered. He and Iorveth had arrived at the gate to the town, leaving the other scoia'tael to wait at the rendezvous point on the river.

"Not enough time," Iorveth said. "The barge will leave while we're smelling the roses."

"In that case, come here," Geralt said, and he took a strip of warn leather from his bag.

Iorveth looked at the leather with no little amusement. "And I thought the handcuffs were kinky."

The elf turned his back and held his arms out to Geralt for the second time that afternoon. Geralt wrapped the softened hide around each wrist individually and then once around both. He traced along the edge of the leather with his fingertip. "Too tight?"

"Nnnh," Iorveth hummed.

Geralt took that as a no and cinched it tighter, like a corset. He brought his lips to Iorveth's ear. "How about now?"

The elf opened his mouth, but the only sound that came out was a soft gush of air. Geralt watched the rise and fall of Iorveth's chest become quick and shallow, as though he were waiting for the witcher's next move. He was putting Geralt in control. He tied off the leather, leaving it tight.

Geralt opened the gate and pushed Iorveth through. If he was going to pretend to be a cruel captor, he would do it with gusto. Iorveth was taken by surprise and would have stumbled into the guard inside the wall had the man not jumped for fear upon seeing the face of the scoia'tael commander.

"What is this?" the guard demanded.

"This is Iorveth," Geralt said. "I'm taking him to the barge under Loredo's orders."

"Don't let me stop you," the guard said as he ushered them into the town square, keeping his distance.

 _I won't_ , Geralt thought.

He edged up to Iorveth's back and took hold of his forearms to steer him through the crowd that had gathered to glimpse the most feared man in Flotsam. Iorveth's face was flushed pink, and he kept his gaze straight ahead, never making eye contact with his audience. His breathing was still short and hot. The people of Flotsam didn't get close—Iorveth's apparent arrest hadn't made them quite so brave as that—and so Geralt could talk in the elf's ear without attracting attention.

"I think you like this," he whispered.

He could see part of Iorveth's scowl out of the corner of his eye. "What do you mean, vatt'ghern? That I enjoy seeing how the dh'oine fear me? I would prefer to see them dead."

"I mean being tied up and paraded through town like some sort of exhibition. It turns you on to be powerless—even more so to have an audience." He gave the leather around Iorveth's wrists a rough tug, making the elf stumble backward into him. They stayed like that for a moment, with Iorveth pressed up against Geralt's chest, feeling the witcher's hardness at the small of his back. "This is how you get your kicks. You give up your control."

Iorveth gritted his teeth as they began moving again. "What madness would lead me to enjoy my own humiliation? My only consolation is that I'll have the last laugh when I take the barge."

Geralt smiled behind Iorveth's back, knowing this wasn't true. Iorveth was the commander of a small guerrilla army, wearing skin almost as thick as his leather armor. He kept his face covered, both with his scarf and with his rage, and he bowed to no one. He didn't have a choice. Surrendering dominance in public—truly surrendering dominance, not merely pretending, as he was now—would have dimmed his followers' respect and sullied his cause. And so he remained stoic, always a figure of authority, never showing weakness with a tear or a laugh. Geralt could only imagine the strain of this constant strength. It must have been a relief for Iorveth to relinquish all power and responsibility during the short walk to the barge. To be controlled instead of being in control. To let go.


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt walked Iorveth up the plank that led to the deck of the barge. From above, the vessel looked as though it could be carrying any cargo: foodstuffs, iron ore, herbs for healers. But Geralt had been below. He had seen the nonhumans imprisoned like hogs in the dank hold. That was why he didn't feel at all sorry about what he did next.

They reached the center of the barge, Geralt's hand still clenched around Iorveth's wrists. He rubbed his thumb in a small circle on the palm of the elf's hand as a signal. Then, with speed that boggled the human guards' eyes, he stripped the leather binding from Iorveth's wrists and slung two steel swords from his back, tossing one hilt-first to Iorveth. The elf caught his blade and spun to face the few guards who had responded immediately to Geralt's treachery. Geralt turned to cover Iorveth's back. He pressed himself backward into Iorveth and was warmed when the elf responded by pushing his shoulder blades into Geralt's, supporting the witcher's weight while also leaning upon him. They backed each other as they pierced approaching guards in accidental harmony, moving in concert with the muscles they could feel in each other's shoulders. Geralt sliced through a man's torso; Iorveth took off a guard's head. It was a macabre dance, but a beautiful one. Their enemies fell as though made of thin, fluttering cloth.

When there were no more enemies to slay, Iorveth slid his sword into a sheath at his side, under his jacket. He slapped a hand on Geralt's shoulder and said, "I'm glad you're on my side, Gwynnbleidd."

Geralt let loose a smile at the sight of the scoia'tael's lopsided grin. "I wouldn't want to fight against you."

They parted to free the barge from the dock, tossing ropes and planks haphazardly onto the deck. Geralt was leaning over the side of the boat when Loredo appeared in a third-story window. He was shouting, but Geralt couldn't decipher his words over the slap of waves against the barge. He could, however, hear the screams of women issuing from behind Loredo, shattering the victorious smirk Geralt had worn since the last body had fallen.

Loredo vanished from the window. Soon he appeared in the door of the first floor. He stared directly into Geralt's face as the third floor erupted in flames.

Geralt ran toward the wheel of the boat to turn it back toward the dock, but Iorveth held him back. "Our women are prepared to die," the elf said.

Geralt stared at Iorveth in disgust. No one was ever truly prepared to die. "I don't think you can make that decision for them," Geralt growled. With that, he sprinted across the deck and leapt from the ledge of the barge. When his boots hit the dock, he bolted into the building without glancing back to see Iorveth smiling slightly on the deck.

\\\\\

/

The three elfin women Geralt rescued from the fire accompanied him back to the barge. Iorveth steered them toward the rendezvous point downriver in silence, and Geralt descended into the hold to free the nonhumans imprisoned in its depths. The two did not speak of what Iorveth had said of the women who were now huddled in the corner of the barge, tending to their burns.

Night fell soon after the rest of the scoia'tael boarded the barge. Geralt kept his distance from the band of archers and made his camp in a secluded area of the hold. He lit a small torch on the side of what used to be a prisoner's cell with the igni spell. He left the barred door ajar and could see a few people bedding down in the cell across from him. He crouched to sort his herbs on the floor and selected a few with which to craft an ointment for his burns. The flames had licked his skin, leaving burn marks along his arms and torso. As a witcher, he would heal quickly compared to a human, but he welcomed anything that would ease the process.

He crushed a few herbs together and mixed them with oil to make the paste slick. Then he stripped off his shirt, letting the charred fabric coil in on itself in a corner. His muscles were defined but streamlined, one running into the other like hot liquid. This smoothness was interrupted by the raised white and red scars that recorded his history as a witcher better than his memory had. He turned his back to the door and dipped his fingers into the salve, which he spread first over his forearms, then over his biceps. The burns stung pleasantly under the healing power of Flotsam's plants.

He moved to his abdomen, rubbing the slippery ointment in circles over the burns on his stomach. He spread it over his chest for good measure, then moved his hands to his hips, just under the waistband of his trousers. Here the ointment was cool and surprising, perhaps even a little exciting.

Much of the ointment went to his shoulders. He couldn't quite reach the burns on his upper and lower back, but he did his best to stretch his fingers toward his spine.

Someone moved behind him and gently moved his hands away from his back. Geralt could smell the honeysuckle and byronia of the man's hair and skin. Iorveth. His wrists tingled where the elf had guided them back to his sides. He stared ahead at the wall of the cell, breathing low. Iorveth picked up the small bowl of salve and coated his fingers in the sticky slickness. He applied this to Geralt's back, his slim fingers sliding expertly along aching muscles as he soothed the angriest of Geralt's wounds. His hands ghosted over the witcher's scars, leaving them warm and sensitive. The scoia'tael poured the last of the ointment down Geralt's spine, letting it drip down his tailbone and onto the floor. Geralt shivered as Iorveth ran his fingertips from the base of his neck down and down around his spine, ending at his trousers. Then he massaged the salve into the witcher's shoulders, neck, and sides, rubbing in concentric circles that made Geralt's muscles tingle with pleasure. The silence stretched on for minutes, and all the while Iorveth was touching him, soothing him, healing him. Geralt felt that he could have fallen into a deep sleep with the scoia'tael leader's hands pressed against his skin and that warm honeysuckle breath tickling the hairs on his neck.

Iorveth lightly touched Geralt's lower back to rub in the remaining salve around his narrow but well-defined hips. "You've been avoiding me," he said matter-of-factly.

Geralt shrugged, aware of how the motion made the muscles in his back extend and retract under Iorveth's hands. "Am I not allowed to go off on my own?"

"I don't care what you do, so long as you don't betray the trust of the scoia'tael."

Geralt spun around and caught Iorveth's wrists in one hand, pressing them together painfully. "I have given you no promises of partnership. I do not agree with your methods or with your morals. We are following a mutually beneficial path to Aedirn. That is where our relationship ends."

He released Iorveth's wrists, and the elf shook them passively to loosen the kinks. Then he leaned back against the wall and scratched behind one pointed ear. "This is about the women."

"Of course it's about the women," Geralt hissed. He was a contract killer, but he had no patience for violence against innocents. "You couldn't have cared less about whether they lived or died."

"On the contrary, I would have valued their sacrifice dearly," Iorveth said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Turning back might have cost us the barge. As it happened, you were able to save them without endangering our cause."

" _Your_ cause," Geralt corrected through his teeth. "I'm no slave to an ideal."

"I do what I have to do to create a future for my race."

"Do you?" Geralt asked. "If you let all of your women die, you'll have no one left to populate your elfin state. Just war-hardened archers who have lost sight of the fact that the reason they're fighting is to protect the people you've sacrificed to your cause."

Iorveth said nothing as Geralt walked him up to the wall, hiding them both in the dimly lit corner of the cell. Their chests touched when they inhaled. Geralt put his hands on either side of the elf's head, trapping him there.

"You don't fight for your people," he said. "You fight for your pride."

Iorveth scowled and glanced to the side. "You think I'm heartless."

"Not heartless," Geralt said. "Just coldhearted."

He shifted one of his hand's to Iorveth's chin and tilted the elf's head up so that his single green eye was forced to meet the witcher's gaze. Then he let his fingers graze the hard line of Iorveth's chin, trailing slowly down his neck and into the deep V of his shirt. His other hand slid behind Iorveth's head and slipped beneath his red bandanna. He twisted his fingers into the elf's thick, dark hair, which was held in a loose bun. Iorveth watched him with suspicion flashing in his eye, but he liquefied in Geralt's arms, melting against the wall and into the witcher's fingers. He didn't resist, but nor did he participate. He simply allowed. Geralt tugged at the elf's hair to tilt his head back. Then he ducked down toward Iorveth's beautiful, scarred face and closed his eyes as he crashed his lips into Iorveth's perfect mouth.

The kiss could not be called gentle or tentative. Geralt nibbled at Iorveth's lips like he owned them, and when Iorveth's lips collapsed around his tongue, admitting the witcher into the hot wetness of his mouth, he explored this new territory with the authority of an invader. His tongue ran across teeth and tongue and the roof of the elf's mouth. He pulled back to lick along Iorveth's bottom lip, then returned to suck on his cupid's bow. Iorveth was flat against the wall with Geralt's half-naked body pressed into his thighs and abdomen. Geralt pushed himself briefly against Iorveth's groin before giving his lips a final taste and pulling away. He brought his face back a few inches from Iorveth's face so he could watch the elf's expression, but he left one hand on Iorveth's hip and the other in his hair.

"I'm only going to keep going if you can show me that you want this," he whispered.

He could see Iorveth's erection creating a tent in his pants, but he wanted more than that. He wanted reciprocation. He wanted Iorveth to admit that he _needed_ him—something—anything.

But Iorveth lowered his eye, hiding behind those long, dark curtains of lashes. Geralt held back a growl. The scoia'tael commander was one of the most frustrating people with whom he had ever had prolonged contact. Stubborn, caustic, emotionless—yet bursting with suppressed cares and desires. Geralt wouldn't play into that game. He wouldn't let Iorveth off so easily.

When he backed up from the wall, Iorveth looked at him in what might have been confusion, or might have been hurt.

"I won't do anything with you until you tell me you want me," Geralt said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Come back when you know what you want."

Watching Iorveth walk out the door of the cell made Geralt's heart and his erection ache, but he imagined that Iorveth ached harder and longer.


	8. Chapter 8

The next time Geralt and Iorveth spoke, they had just arrived in Aedirn, and they were slashing their way through warriors who were already dead.

"Protect the dragonslayer," Iorveth commanded as he tried to ward off a pair of wraiths.

Geralt glanced at Saskia, who was demolishing a sentient boulder while defending the injured Prince Stennis.

"I don't think she needs my help," Geralt grunted, plunging his silver sword through the memory of a soldier.

Beneath the owl's magical shield, the group made its way to the outskirts of the mist, hacking with abandon at anything that managed to slip past the owl's defenses. Geralt hadn't had much time to consider the curse, which had swarmed through the old battlefield almost as soon as the barge had landed, but he could sense the hatred and vengeance at its core. He let his shoulders sag in relief when they broke free from the mist. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Iorveth doing the same. They both sheated their weapons and watched the owl take the stern but beautiful form of the sorceress Philippa Eilhart, who gazed from Saskia to the two men.

"Strange bedfellows," she said. "A terrorist, a kingslayer, and the beloved dragonslayer."

Saskia stepped forward. "You said yourself you thought the witcher innocent," she argued. "And Iorveth is not without his reasons. We share certain goals and achieve them through different methods—though King Henselt's words today suggest that the liberation of Vergen will be far from peaceful."

"There will be no battle until the curse has been lifted," Philippa said, squinting into the mist. "I will find a way to reverse the spell. Until then, if not afterward, we must all be allies."

She gave Iorveth a pointed look before turning on her heel and leading the way to Vergen. Iorveth scowled.

"Mother of a harpy," he muttered under his breath.

Geralt cracked a smile. "That must be how this place became infested with the creatures. Philippa Eilhart birthed them all."

"She gave us nicknames," Iorveth added. "Terrorist, kingslayer. Hers shall be harpy-fucker."

They fell silent as they approached the city walls, but Geralt was grinning. His rapport with the elf had been restored.

Immediately upon entering Vergen, Geralt followed Saskia and Philippa into a meeting of local leaders. Saskia had requested that Iorveth remain outside for the first part of the meeting. To the shock of all who witnessed it, Iorveth agreed without any sass. Geralt felt a pang of something—not jealousy, really, but perhaps pity. It was clear that Saskia had Iorveth's undivided loyalty, but she didn't appear to give him much in return. Her smile was reserved, her words measured. She batted her eyelashes as though she had observed other women doing it and thought she should give it a try.

Then again, the admiring gazes of those inside the chamber suggested that Saskia had the undivided loyalty of nearly everyone in Vergen. Geralt watched her with interest as she briefed everyone on the catastrophe on the battlefield. Her face was strong and well-defined, her stature impossible to ignore or disrespect. When she looked around the room, it seemed as though she could see into a future where Vergen was already independent. Geralt begrudgingly admitted that he understood why Iorveth was so taken with her.

"Now, to worldly matters," Saskia declared. "How many are we?"

A dwarf shook his head. "Saskia, you know well—"

"How many?" she insisted.

"We dwarves are near two hundred. But don't judge us by our number."

"A half thousand peasants will come," another man added. "Though you'll get no precise count."

A nobleman spoke up. "Fifty-three knights and another two hundred armed men."

"Not enough," Stennis muttered.

"Henselt leads five thousand," Saskia announced. "Five to one against us. What say you of that?"

"We are few, they are many," the nobleman said. "But we have our walls, low though they be. If we had archers—who knows."

Geralt grimaced. Little did the people of Vergen know, they did have archers—scoia'tael archers.

The dwarf from before shook a fist. "Oh for a regimen of heavy arbalests!"

Saskia smiled, and Geralt knew what was coming. He moved a hand to his sword in case the room became a bloodbath.

"We have something better," the dragonslayer said. "Iorveth's elves. Scoia'tael."

The cavern echoed with footsteps, slow and deliberate. Iorveth's boots broke into the light of the room before the rest of him, the sun teasingly revealing the leather straps that bound his calves beneath the sweeping hem of his jacket. When the light reached his face, the cavern itself seemed to gasp—though perhaps that was only Geralt. He bit his lip to keep himself quiet. Gentle sunlight played across the elf's war-sharpened features and marked shadows deep within the hollows of his cheekbones. Iorveth tilted his head up to look into the rays, and the light took the opportunity to glide across his nose and lips and slip down into the crevice of his collarbones.

"Gentlemen, I give you Iorveth," Saskia announced. She needn't have said it. Surely even the young nobleman could recognize Iorveth from the beautiful scowl that curled up into his scar. And no one in the room, save Geralt and Saskia, was pleased to see him.

Iorveth crossed his arms against the wave of horrified faces that greeted him. He showed no vulnerability, seeming almost bored with the others' animosity. Geralt suspected that this was an act, but he wasn't sure. The scoia'tael commander must have grown accustomed to horror in all his years.

"One hundred of the world's best archers await your command, dragonslayer," Iorveth drawled with confidence. He knew that Vergen needed him, and he knew it would kill them to admit it.

Zoltan shrugged and took a swig of ale. "You wished for archers—here they are."

"I take no pleasure in fraternizin' with elves," the other dwarf said. "But even a shit-coated stick can be a weapon."

Geralt watched Iorveth's eye narrow and saw the elf consider shoving a stick up the dwarf's shit-hole.

A peasant pounded his fists on the table. "He burned down the villages of many in my horde!"

For once, the noblemen and the peasants agreed. The human end of the table erupted into curses, most of them flung at the Aen Seidhe. Iorveth was still crossing his arms, but his fists clenched and unclenched around weapons made of air. Geralt hoped he wouldn't have to drag the elf out of Vergen by the hood of his jacket. He didn't think he'd be able to manage it without drugging Iorveth first.

"Saskia," Iorveth said above the din, "say the word and we'll depart."

The humans silenced themselves to wait for Saskia's response. She conjured her voice and boomed, "Here me out. Iorveth came to fight for me, and I know that he'll stay the course, just like each of you."

"How could you know that?" a peasant cried. "He's an elf!"

"He's been fighting humans for centuries," a noble added.

Saskia shook her head sadly. "But for the first time in scores of years, his fight makes sense. The scoia'tael know no peace. They've fought for Nilfgaard, for the valley of the flowers, in vain."

Geralt's eyes were on Iorveth. He watched the elf turn his head away so that only his red scarf was visible. Was it sorrow—or shame?

"They've been betrayed and cheated," Saskia went on. "Now they have a new goal. The Pontar Valley could be the first state in which no man would have to fear elfin arrows upon leaving city walls. And elves and dwarves wouldn't live in ghettos. First, however, we have a battle to win. You know who we're up against. It's a splendid army. They cannot be scared off or routed. They have to be killed." She looked back at Iorveth then, and Geralt nearly growled at the doe eyes she directed at the elf, who suddenly looked as bashful as a schoolboy. "I want Iorveth to sit at the same table as me. I want him to kill Kaedweni forces. And I assure you that he'll do so with a smile—but only if you let him."

There was silence until a dwarf began to grin. "To see a smile on that skinny face—I'm in. Iorveth stays!"

Iorveth looked at him blankly, as though not believing that he was to be accepted. His eye widened when a peasant shook his head and said, "Bloody hell. Father's turnin' in his grave, but a must's a must. I say aye."

Only the noblemen were reluctant to accept Iorveth into their forces. Geralt vowed to keep an eye on them. It wouldn't do to have a noble rebellion on Saskia's hands just before the battle with Henselt. For his part, Iorveth refused to apologize for the scoia'tael.

"If I hadn't killed your men," he said to one nobleman, "they would have killed me."

A fair point, Geralt thought.

The rest of the room must have thought so as well, for the majority voted aye. Saskia raised her goblet for a toast.

"To the Pontar Valley!" she shouted, and everyone drank.

That, for Saskia, was when the world went dark.


	9. Chapter 9

Geralt found Iorveth in a dark corner of the elfin encampment in Vergen. The elf was holding a glass of something that smelled several centuries stronger than dwarven ale, his back ghosting against the sloping wall of a shanty. The camp had been set into a crack in the mountainous city—it could not be called a valley—and had such poor drainage that rainwater pooled in the spaces between the little wooden shacks and turned to thin mud. It was clear from the elves' accommodations where Vergen placed the scoia'tael in society.

Iorveth looked up as Geralt approached, and the witcher leaned his side against the shanty.

Iorveth tipped his glass toward him in a sarcastic salute. "Gwynbleidd. How goes the search?"

Geralt had spent the evening looking for the four components of the antidote for Saskia. He needed to talk to some of the locals about navigating the mines, but he didn't think they would take kindly to him bursting into their bedrooms at midnight asking about immortelle.

"I have some leads," the witcher said. "Nothing to be done until the morning. Philippa says Saskia will hold through the night."

Iorveth nodded and took a sip of his drink.

"Drinking alone?" Geralt asked.

"I'm not quite welcome at the tavern," the elf said in his usual drawl. Iorveth's voice was unlike the other elves'. It was harsh and biting and somehow deeply seductive. Geralt stepped forward and took the glass out of Iorveth's hands to taste the liquid himself, slipping his tongue along the rounded edge and relishing the sweetness of Iorveth's mouth that lingered in the alcohol.

"I'll drink with you," he said huskily.

Iorveth's eye widened almost imperceptibly, betraying his nerves. Feigning confidence, the elf placed a finger to Geralt's mouth and wiped up the excess liquor from the witcher's lips. Then he placed his slender finger in his own mouth and sucked on it gently.

Geralt watched all this with quickly dilating pupils. His pants were bulging, and Iorveth could see it: the elf smiled smugly at the witcher's erection.

"You're a tease," Geralt accused. "You've been teasing me for days."

Iorveth's face became flushed, embarrassed to have his affections exposed. Geralt used the moment to toss back the rest of Iorveth's drink, which was not so strong as he had originally suspected. Then he placed the glass on the ground and circled his arm around Iorveth's waist, pulling the elf close against him.

"What do you want?" he breathed against Iorveth's ear. The elf shivered as Geralt nuzzled into his neck and teethed at the base of his hairline. He whimpered something unintelligible as Geralt licked a warm line up his neck. "I asked you a question," he whispered. "Tell me what you want."

He placed his lips just behind Iorveth's ear and began to suck. The elf gasped and cried, "Damn it, Gwynbleidd. You know what I want."

Geralt smirked against Iorveth's neck. "Do I? I'm not sure."

Iorveth growled. "I want you—to fuck me."

Geralt tipped the elf's head back and met his lips in a crushing kiss. Their tongues touched and shivered against each other. Geralt's hands wandered to forbidden places. Iorveth opened his body to the witcher and moaned for more, but Geralt didn't want to give it to him here, in this muddy alley. He took Iorveth by the belt and tugged him around to the front of the shack so they could enter through the door, which Geralt shut tight behind them. The lock was crude, but it would hold. He used the igni spell to light two torches on the wall. They cast a warm, low light across the scarcely furnished room, which held a single wooden chair, a small table, and a bed in the corner. The last was all that mattered to Geralt.

He tore Iorveth's coat from his body, letting the fabric and weapons fall together to the floor. Then he pushed Iorveth onto the bed. The elf lay propped on his elbows, looking up both eagerly and shyly. His shirt stretched taut over his sleek muscles, and Geralt was pleased to see that his pants were tight over his groin.

Still standing, Geralt began to undress himself, tugging his shirt up around his abdominal muscles and over his broad shoulders. Iorveth's eye scanned hungrily over every inch of exposed skin, lingering on the witcher's deepest scars. Geralt smirked and moved his hands to his belt. He could see Iorveth's pulse quicken in the hollow of his throat, and he decided to tease the elf a little, slowly pulling the leather loose and sliding it free from his belt loops. This wasn't fast enough for Iorveth. The elf growled impatiently and grabbed at Geralt's pants, pulling them down his sculpted hips and legs in one smooth motion. He reached to repeat the process with Geralt's white boxers, but the witcher held his hands in place and shook his head. "Not yet. You're wearing too many clothes."

Geralt knelt down on the bed over Iorveth and tenderly removed the elf's shirt. He lowered his lips to Iorveth's chest and nipped his way down to those beautiful abs, spending his time licking and sucking the dark lines around each muscle. By the time his tongue reached the elf's lower abdomen, Iorveth was moaning and writhing beneath his touch. Geralt dipped his tongue beneath Iorveth's trousers and savored the gasp that sounded above him. He skillfully undid the trouser button with his teeth and kissed the skin that was revealed beneath it. Then he peeled the tight fabric down over Iorveth's hips and was delighted to learn that the elf wore no underwear.

When Iorveth was naked save the red scarf that was wrapped around his unseeing eye, Geralt rocked back on his knees to admire the form of the man who had starred in all of his recent fantasies. Iorveth was more beautiful than his imagination had realized. His skin was smooth even where scars etched colorful patterns in his history. Every muscle ran seamlessly into the next, so solid that there was no question about the elf's strength. But nothing compared to the elf's cock, and Geralt didn't care that Iorveth could see him staring. It wasn't that Iorveth was particularly long or thick around (though he was certainly not small). Rather, Geralt was struck by the visible vigor of the elf's length: the healthy, pinkish color, the round and tantalizing head, the pulsing veins, the incredible symmetry of it all. It was the kind of dick that an artist would attempt to craft on a statue, but no statue would ever live up to this perfection. Geralt's mouth grew wet at the thought of having Iorveth inside of it.

He stood and dropped his own boxers, revealing how aroused he was by the sight of the elf's body.

Geralt looked back up at Iorveth's face. Iorveth was watching him—gauging his reaction, his dark eye searching and cautious. Geralt pushed his lover for the night flat on his back against the bed and lowered his body down onto that warm, lean abdomen. Their erections rubbed together playfully, both of them as hard as swords. Geralt kissed the vines of Iorveth's tattoo and felt the elf's pulse quicken beneath his lips. His lips skated down to Iorveth's nipples, and he sucked each softly before moving lower. When his mouth reached Iorveth's groin, the elf sat up suddenly, and Geralt raised his head.

"What's wrong?" the witcher asked. He drew back a little to give Iorveth space.

"I haven't…done this in a while," Iorveth said, a blush spreading across his face. Geralt imagined that it took a lot out of the scoia'tael commander's ego to admit that he was inexperienced at anything—especially sex. "I don't know if I can—do this. With someone else."

Geralt knew the name that had gone unsaid: Cedric.

"We don't have to keep going," Geralt said. He rolled over to sit facing Iorveth on the edge of the bed, one hand stroking Iorveth's hip.

Iorveth looked away. "No, I—I need this. Just not the intimacy, the tenderness. Fuck me, but don't kiss me."

Geralt frowned and raised his hand to touch Iorveth's cheek, almost expecting to find tears there. His cock was aching, sure, but Iorveth's heart was aching. Tonight was not the night to fuck Iorveth the way he wanted to fuck him, hard and fast. He rolled his shoulders back and said, "No. I'll stay the night if you want, but no more of this."

Iorveth looked at him sharply. "What are you going to do? Spoon me? Get your fucking cock in my ass, Gwynbleidd. I didn't bring you here to comfort me."

Geralt raised his eyebrows. The elf's mood had changed from nervous to spiteful without much prodding. "You didn't bring me here at all," he said. "I pushed you through the door. But I'm not going to fuck you while you're grieving. When I take you to bed, I expect you to be thinking of me and only me." Not Cedric or Saskia, he added in his head.

Iorveth pulled his face out of Geralt's hand and spat, "Bloede dh'oine." He swallowed hard. Geralt had never seen something so broken and yet so beautiful, his pale skin swimming with firelight. "Can't you understand that I don't want to feel anything?" he asked hoarsely. "I want you to fuck me senseless so I don't have to think about it all. Please. Don't be—tender with me. Be rough. Hurt me. You asked me what I wanted. That's it."

"I wasn't aware that you wanted to be punished," Geralt shot back. He stood from the bed and turned his back to Iorveth. "I'm not going to have sex with you so you can atone for whatever sins you think you've committed."

He had just picked up his discarded underwear when Iorveth stepped behind him and caught his hips in his hands, brushing his lips across the base of the witcher's neck. "I didn't say I wouldn't enjoy it." He exhaled slowly, and it sent warm shivers down Geralt's spine.

There was no helping it. The elf was too damn sexy, and he knew it. Geralt turned around and pushed Iorveth roughly into bed. He would give Iorveth what he'd asked for.


	10. Chapter 10

This is a long time coming. Sorry for the last chapter's cliffhanger.

I had a request to write a section in Iorveth's POV. Instead I wrote the whole chapter in Iorveth's POV, because I thought it would be fun and because I wanted to make sure I conveyed that this was all consensual, despite the bondage. Consent is important, even in fan fiction.

Beware: serious smut ahead. If man-on-man and/or a submissive/dominant power relationship during sex make you uncomfortable, you'd best stop here.

Iorveth was sprawled on the thin, hard mattress with his head tilted back in the absence of a pillow. He watched Geralt warily, maybe even anxiously, as those strange, yellow eyes became black with the witcher's pupils. In all his centuries, Iorveth had never been with a witcher. For that matter, he had never been with a non-elf, and certainly never with a dh'oine. He couldn't think of Geralt as a dh'oine, not when the witcher was leering over him with sex in his eyes, his lips, his slow, thudding pulse. Iorveth would push away the hatred and the injustice for a night—and the guilt, the memory of Cedric's body propped up lifelessly against an unsympathetic tree. Especially that.

Geralt looked him over, devouring him. Iorveth was frozen in self-consciousness. It had been so long. What did Geralt—the more experienced of the two, Iorveth was sure, though Geralt was younger than he—see in him? He was relieved when the witcher leaned down to suck sharply on his smooth, creamy skin, pushing him deep down into the mattress without gentleness. He bit his way along the scoia'tael commander's jaw line, claiming him with teeth marks and bruises. With his hands, he scoped out Iorveth's body, grabbing and groping wherever he pleased.

Iorveth didn't resist. He relished his powerlessness, the knowledge that even if he wanted to struggle, to get free, the witcher would easily restrain him. Even now Geralt was straddling him, his body hard and heavy and smothering. Iorveth tried not to think about why he was excited by his own helplessness, or how the scoia'tael would react if they saw their fierce commander relinquishing his body and his control to a vatt'ghern. These were not things that one thought about when Geralt of Rivia was fondling one's genitals.

"You're too tense," Geralt muttered into his neck just before biting down. Hard.

Iorveth cried out. He thought he was bleeding. He didn't care.

Geralt's fingers rolled over his balls and squeezed just barely to the point of discomfort, but not beyond it. With his thumb, he stroked up Iorveth's length and fingered the slit of the swollen head. He drew back just enough to look the elf in the eye as he wrapped his fist around Iorveth's dick and held it there, maddeningly tight.

"Is this what you wanted?"

Iorveth turned his face into the mattress to hide his shame as he thrust his need into the witcher's large, calloused hand. He couldn't remember the last time he had ejaculated. Months ago, surely. Moments alone were hard to come by as the commander of the scoia'tael. Now his groin had awoken from dormancy, and he couldn't hide his desperation. He tried to thrust again, but Geralt held his fist firmly in place. He heard the witcher chuckle.

"I was going to pleasure you, but you stopped me. Now you're going to have to wait."

Suddenly Iorveth was weightless, no longer held in place by that warm, solid body. He groaned in protest, feeling the cold air on his freed erection. Geralt had climbed out of bed and was reaching for his bag. He turned back to see Iorveth's worried face and grinned. "I'm not leaving," he promised. He pulled a few strips of leather out of the bag and stepped back toward the bed, gazing up and down Iorveth's body without timidity. "Spread out," he commanded.

Iorveth hesitated, embarrassed. But he couldn't help but obey. He wondered if the witcher had used a hex on him. But spread out he did, opening his arms and legs around his naked body as though he were a clam prying itself open against its own nature.

Geralt merely observed, refusing to take charge. When Iorveth was spread eagle, his nakedness fully exposed, the witcher straddled his waist and went to work on the leather ties. As in Flotsam, he circled the leather around each of Iorveth's wrists and tugged it tight, nearly stopping the flow of blood to the elf's hands. Then he made another knot around each bedpost so that Iorveth's arms were held high above his head. Iorveth felt his nipples harden at the sensation of being stretched and spread along with his upper body. This didn't go unnoticed to Geralt, who pinched one of the elf's nipples before walking to the foot of the bed to tie down Iorveth's legs. Though Geralt was now farther away from him, this was somehow more intimate, and also more humiliating. Iorveth stared at the ceiling as his ankles were lashed to the bedposts, giving Geralt an unimpeded view of his crotch.

And yet his erection was only more swollen—unbearably so. He wanted Geralt to stare at him in his vulnerability, though it made him blush. He maintained his eye contact with the ceiling. He was confusing himself.

He heard Geralt step beside the bed. One of those sword-roughened hands ran down the length of his exposed body, tweaking his nipples and rubbing across his hard, lean abdomen. The hand massaged its way into his wide-open crotch and stroked the sensitive spot just under his balls that tingled all the way up to his prostate.

Iorveth didn't want to moan. He didn't deserve that kind of pleasure. He gritted his teeth against the sound bulging in his throat, but it escaped anyway, a pained and mortifying whine. He turned his head as far into the pillow as he could with his arm tethered in place, blocking his escape. Now Iorveth could see that with his free hand, the witcher was pumping his own magnificent erection, rolling the skin back and forth over the plump head with practiced expertise. He squeezed Iorveth's thigh as he grunted and milked his cock harder, all the while staring at Iorveth's groin like he owned it. And he would own it—soon.

Breathing heavily, Geralt slowed his pace so he wouldn't ejaculate into his own hand. Iorveth watched him in awe, aroused knowing that the witcher found _him_ so arousing. Geralt looked up at him and smirked. "You're damned pretty for a terrorist."

For a moment, this brought Iorveth out of his submissive role. "I thought we had agreed that I wasn't a terrorist."

Geralt rolled over him onto the bed and shoved three of his fingers into Iorveth's mouth, swirling them around his tongue until the scoia'tael commander began to gag.

"You aren't terrorist tonight," Geralt said. "Tonight, you're my bitch."

And with that, he slid his fingers into Iorveth's ass.

Iorveth gasped. He'd been expecting the pain, but that didn't make it any less shocking. Geralt didn't make it easy on him, either. The witcher had taken his request for roughness to heart, and he thrust and spread his fingers until tears sprang to the elf's eye. But Iorveth didn't mind. He panted his pleasure even while he cried his pain. He pushed himself onto the witcher's fingers as much as possible with his wrists and ankles tied down. When Geralt took his hand away, Iorveth groaned in protest—until the fingers were replaced with something larger and more forceful.

Geralt paused with the head of his cock in Iorveth's ass and took Iorveth's jaw in one hand, forcing the elf to look him in his yellow-black eyes. Then he pushed himself into Iorveth's innermost regions, all the while consuming the ecstatic need in Iorveth's face.

"You—are—mine," Geralt ordered in rhythm with his thrusts. "All—mine. You will beg—for my cock. You will want—me, and only—me. I will—ruin you—for all—other—men."

He reached down to pump Iorveth's cock between them, and Iorveth was indeed ruined for all other men. He groaned and cried the witcher's name, his body shaking pleadingly around the witcher's erection.

"Yours," he gasped in obedience. "All yours."

He saw stars every time Geralt's hips met his, the witcher's muscular abdomen and thighs slapping loudly against his own. He could barely hear over the slapping and the beating of his own pulse, but he knew that he was whimpering for release. Geralt lunged into him and grasped his erection possessively. The hand on Iorveth's jaw reached between him and the mattress to grasp the elf's ass. He gave it a squeeze as he thrust once again, and Iorveth's vision went white. All the blood in his body was now centered in his groin. He cried out one last time before he came into Geralt's hand and all over his own stomach, the hot semen pooling between his muscles and leaking onto the bed.

Geralt thrust a few more times before he reached his climax, groaning and panting. He stayed inside Iorveth for a full minute as he gazed at the elf's body and caught his breath, and Iorveth felt strangely happy to be filled with someone else.

When Geralt pulled out his slowly softening dick, he took most of Iorveth's energy with it. Iorveth fell into a sleepy daze as the witcher gently wiped him down with a wet towel (where had he gotten that?) and cut away the leather bindings. He wasn't awake enough to complain. He drifted off just after Geralt pulled a blanket over him, and he could have sworn that he felt a solid body slide into bed next to his and warm arms slide around his waist. But when he awoke the next morning, the sheets were cold and he was alone. He thought that last part must have been a dream.


End file.
